Self-Portrait
by MakeItAGoodOne
Summary: Sherlock believes he knows people inside and out. But when he must get to know those closest to him as someone else, what he finds changes his outlook: about his friends, and maybe even himself. - Johnlock. Sherlock first person, present tense.
1. Chapter One

"You knew this all along?"

"Of course."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't important."

Raindrops on the roof. The scent of recently polished wood. _The Study of the Neurologically Challenged. _A coaster with a recently made brown ring: coffee at 3:15pm. He must not have much sleep last night.

"You didn't think the small, but vital fact that Jim Moriarty and Professor Moriarty aren't the same person wasn't _important?"_

I drum my fingers against the smooth leather surface of the armrest. Cool to the touch. No one has sat here in the last 24 hours. Mycroft is really not understanding me. Irritation. Impatience. How do I explain myself more clearly_?_

"Jim was in the way. He was trying to take over. He needed to be stopped. I stopped him."

"And?"

"Isn't a thank you in order?"

A known felon is dead. I am mostly responsible for this action. What more does he want?

"Oh, my _dear_ brother. No, I am not going to thank you for making me use my power to allow you to flawlessly fake your death, only to find out it was a waste of time!"

He is being especially dense this morning. I push my elbows against his desk. Mahogany. What else.

"Don't you get it? Jim Moriarty was the Professor. He was his face, his eyes, his legs. Anytime the prof wanted to go into public, he had his dear little brother do his work for him."

"So basically Jim is to the prof what you are to me?"

"In the sense that Jim was the younger and smarter brother, yes."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. Oculomotor eyelid and eyeball movement. I wonder where eye rolling came from. Possibly some connection to the upward rolling of eyes seen in frightened animals.

"Professor Moriarty never gets his hands dirty. That's why he is a consulting criminal. That was the missing piece. There's no way he'd ever put himself in danger to talk to me. Jim Moriarty, on the other hand, is a bored psychopath. He loves to show off, flaunt his intellect, and throw himself into danger."

"He's sounding more and more like you."

He is like me. Why else would I know precisely what he was to do. It was a complicated chess game. I won.

"The prof knew his brother's nature. He asked Jim to meet with clients and pretend to be him. Jim is fantastic actor, as we know. He spent a good portion of his life pretending to be someone else. Jim began working on his own to try to kill me. He had promised to kill me, and so he believed he owed me. The Professor probably wanted him to try to kill me, I was in his way after all. But Jim made it his personal life goal. And he didn't mind dying in the process. The Professor is much too fond of himself and his position to kill himself."

Mycroft sighs. He drums his pen on his desk. Ballpoint pen from his university: graduation present. I wasn't there.

"You look idiotic."

Of course I do. There's fake blood coating my eyebrows and plastering my hair to my face. What did he expect? I just got back from faking my death.

"Go with Anthea and get cleaned up."

Who's Anthea? Oh, she's probably the girl who just walked in. She was probably standing outside the door, waiting for her name to be mentioned. Mycroft must've texted her. Freshly cut brown hair, black sweater, short black skirt: cares about appearance. Face buried in Blackberry: faked unconcern. Pays more attention to her surroundings than others think. Locket around her neck, faded color: sentiment. Probably a romantic partner or close family member. Rusted edges: hasn't been opened for a while. Something happened between them. She still cares about the person: wears the locket often. Still feels some resentment: doesn't look at the picture.

Rustling behind me, desk area. Mycroft hands a new duffle bag to the girl. She doesn't look up. She slips the straps over her arm and saunters over to the door. She holds it open with her free hand. She stands there, waiting. Presumably for me.

"What's in the bag?"

"You'll see."

Gray cardigan, checkered shirt, and skinny jeans. Pale red mop of curls: well made wig. Gray beret: French? College student? American model? No, definitely French. The thick-rimmed glasses and brown contacts are a nice touch. I look younger. Less intelligent. Seriously, this cardigan is terrible. I look like a scrawny boy.

"I hate cardigans!"

"Stop acting like a spoiled little boy, Sherlock."

"I don't wear cardigans."

"That's the point."

I don't look like myself, that's for sure. I guess I can make do with the disguise. A door opens, click of modestly high heels. Anthea. Her reflection in the mirror would've confirmed that for an ordinary person, I suppose. What looks like a caterpillar is in her hands, alongside the glue. _No. _

"Absolutely_ not._"

"Sherlock–"

"_No. _I'll wear the cardigan. You are _not_ putting a fake mustache on me!"

_I. Hate. Mustaches._

"Alright. But we'll have to get some makeup. You need to be unrecognizable."

Obviously. Mycroft does love to state the obvious. As it is, this disguise is pretty good. Not that I'm admitting that. But would it work for a police officer? Unassuming, yes. Anderson will be _intolerable_. I suppose I'll have to deal with his condescension. He's such a moron. Maybe I can hate him in my alter ego as well. That won't be too obvious. He has to be used to people hating him.

Anthea is pulling some papers out of her leather messenger bag. My forged documents. I was born in France, moved to Oxford at age 13. That would explain the clothes. I have a graduate degree in criminology. My resume is doable. I'll have to act a lot more ordinary than I would prefer. Anthea's voice broke my thoughts.

"Ok, Sherlock. What name do you want?"

Cheveux. Strong, very French name. My father is French, my mum is English. I guess I should have an English name. William? I could simply go with my given first name. Common enough. _"Hamish_. _John_ _Hamish_ _Watson_. _Just_ _if you_ were _looking for baby names." _John.

"Hamish William Cheveux."

I turn back to the mirror. Mycroft is giving me a weird look. Understanding? Sympathy? He must know John's middle name. He's Mycroft after all.

"Ok, we're sending you to France. Any accent will be explained by the time at Oxford. We have some field work that needs done there and-"

"No. I'm staying here. For now, anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

"There's too many loose ends here. Moriarty's whole criminal network, my innocence, not to mention the Professor."

I can't leave. My work is here. I have so much left to finish. My innocence needs to be restored. Moriarty's ring. I love this city. I have a flat here. And...

"Absolutely not. Too dangerous! You could be recognized."

_"Could be dangerous." _John. That's something we have in common. An addiction to danger. The thrill of not knowing what will happen next. Flushed faces, pounding steps, minds working overtime. The adrenaline pumping through our veins. Our.

"You need me."

Mycroft stares at me. He is weighing the pros and cons. Does he care enough about his little brother's safety to keep him from ensuring the nation's security?

"Alright, but be careful."

Apparently not.

**{ A/N: Please review. I absolutely love constructive criticism! I'd love any tips you have for me to make this better! }**


	2. Chapter Two

"Hello, Inspector Cheveux. My name is Colin Ellery."

Tall man, early 40's. Deep set wrinkles around his eyes: worries a lot. His left eye is slightly weaker. Firm lips: calloused, pessimistic. Steel gray hair, tousled and soft: brand name shampoo. Completely spotless gray suit: vaguely OCD. Pale blue dress shirt, top button unbuttoned: comfortably aware of his physical attractiveness. Versace Pour Homme cologne and Talbot wine: wealthy. Slight muscle twitch in left arm: recently went through a stressful incident. Death in the family? No, he's too well mannered to drink a $300 bottle of wine so soon after a relative's death. Fight with a spouse? Possibly. More likely a recent near-death experience. Probably related to a case.

"What happened?"

He turns, holding the cab door open for me. Someone recently had sex in here.

"Excuse me?"

"Your near-death experience. What happened?"

He's slightly nervous, but trying to hide it. He was probably warned about me. The cabbie is giving me a confused look through the mirror.

"I'm sorry, how did you..."

He's trailing off, probably unsure of whether or not to tell me. He's a bit narcissistic, though. He will.

"I got injured on a case involving..."

I don't really care. I tune him out. I have work to do.

_Creak. _The door to my mind palace opens and I step in. Ok, let's see, the room full of information about Moriarty. Ah yes, here it is. Diploma on the right hand wall: Professor. I know that well enough. Next, a bookcase. Let's see, books: _Carl Powers, The Great Game, Shared Boredom, Consultant Criminal, Clean Hands, Underwear, Burning Hearts, Stayin' Alive, Irene Adler.. _Oh!

"Inspector Cheveux?"

My mind palace shatters. Ellery is holding the cab door open and staring at me. It's a good look for him. The cabbie is German, has three kids, and smells like cigarettes, sweat, and Old Spice. (Unimportant: delete) We're at Scotland Yard. Familiarity. Cheveux is talking to the receptionist. I wonder if she still doesn't know her husband is cheating on her. She motions the way to Lestrade's office.

26 cubicles. It's a bit chilly in here. Too bad I can't wear my old coat. _"Turning up your coat collar so you look cool." _John.

I don't do that!

"Lestrade, this is Detective Inspector Hamish Cheveux. Mr. Cheveux, this is DI Lestrade."

"Pleased to meet you"

What's his first name again? Gavin? George? Oh, who cares.

"Likewise."

Ellery is handing over my papers. I wonder what Lestrade thinks about Hamish Cheveux. What do I look like to him? Young, inexperienced, shy. What is going on in that splendidly dull brain? He's unimpressed, that's for sure.

"Inspector Cheveux will be in your division. He's specialist chosen to pursue the Holmes/Moriarty case. You'll find all his necessary files here. Now, if there's nothing else, I really have to be going. A pleasure, as always, Lestrade. Cheveux."

Lestrade won't comprehend much from those tedious files he's pouring over. I'm a Detective Inspector from Birmingham. Probably won't bother checking to see if that's true. He has orders from above to take me. What's in his eyes? Resentment? Probably doesn't like an equal being given his case. If only he knew we were not equal. At least not in intellectual prowess.

"Alright, Mr. Cheveux, everything seems to be in order. The office next door has been cleared out for you temporarily. I hope you find it satisfactory. Now, if you don't mind, I have some work to get to. Donovan will be in soon to give you the necessary details. Good day."

Overly formal speech, loss of respectful title, barely veiled sarcasm. Definitely resentment.

"Thank you."

That's what people say, I think. Who cares. Lestrade's noncommittal nod means I can leave. The office is small, but I don't need vast amounts of space. Nice desk and comfortable chair though. I suppose that box on the desk is my personal affects. Personal in the loosest sense of the word. Mycroft's idea, obviously. Dent in the corner, scratch on the top. Accidental, not malicious. Inside the box: Oxford diploma, 40x-2500x Biological Microscope, 10MP camera, Macbook Pro laptop, elephant figurine, iPhone, and empty picture frame. _"Photograph someone and put their picture in here. You need to not be a sociopath."_ Thanks for the sticky note, Mycroft.

"Inspector Cheveux?"

Donovan is looking as dull-witted as usual.

"The same. I'm assuming you're Donovan?"

"Yes, that's me. I heard you're here about the Holmes/Moriarty case. I'll give you a hint: It's not as complicated as some are making it out to be. Sherlock Holmes was a psychopath, pure and simple."

_High-functioning sociopath!_ Does no one understand the difference?

"Leave the case files on the desk, please."

She's staring at me. Am I being rude? Well, I can hardly be blamed, being called a psychopath on my first day at work. She'll get over it. The door did not need to be shut so firmly. I guess I should be nicer. I'm just not in the mood for acting today. Good, some peace and quiet. I can get back to my mind palace.

_Creak. _The door to my mind palace opens and I step in. Why did I put so many stairs in here? Here's my Moriarty room. Morbid place. Book shelf: _Irene Adler. _Book opens: _"Hello? Yes, of course it is, what do you want?" "Say that again! Say that again and know if you are lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you!" _Irene Adler was working for Jim Moriarty, in a way. She had his number, not the Professor's. I wonder - _"That was amazing!...It was extraordinary. It was quite... extraordinary." _John. What are you doing here? No, leave, you're breaking my concentration. Don't look like that, John, you know what I mean! I'm going crazy, I need to get out of here.

I open my eyes. The light is bright, but that's because my pupils are dilated. Why is Anderson staring at me through the glass?

"If you have something to say, come in and say it."

Anderson looks embarrassed. I guess that wasn't what he expected me to say. What would he expect me to say? I guess something sentimental about being glad to meet him. But I'm not glad to meet him. Isn't honesty a virtue upheld by ordinary people? I don't think I'll ever understand them.

"Hello, I'm, uh, I'm sorry I was staring. I just, was wondering if you were ok."

"Why?"

"You were standing there with your eyes shut. I guess, well, you're probably tired. I don't want to bother you. I just came to say introduce myself."

What an idiot.

"Well, then say what you came to say."

"Oh, right. Well, I'm Philip Anderson. I'm a member of the forensics team."

"If you're in forensics, than what are you doing here?"

"To meet you, of course!"

Why would he want to meet me? Is this a normal social gesture?

"Oh?"

"Well, I was a personal...I mean, I knew Sherlock personally. I just, I thought maybe I could help you with the case in some way. I mean, if you need any personal accounts of the man."

"I think I have everything under control for now. If I need anything, I'll be sure to let you know."

"Right. Well, I'll be off then. Good to meet you Mr..."

"You know my name."

"Of course. Good to meet you Mr. Cheveux."

I really dislike that man.


	3. Chapter Three

448 Allsop Place. A street over from Baker St. The door is worn around the edges: slammed many times. Scratches around the doorknob: drunk.

"Hello, Mr. Cheveux! I admit, I was a bit surprised that you would rent without seeing it first, but I'm happy to get a tenant."

"Hamish."

"I'm sorry?"

"Call me Hamish."

"Right, of course. Well, I'm Marge, then. The flat is a bit small, but great for a single guy. You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

Why does everyone assume I'd want a girlfriend?

"Not really my area."

"Oh. Okay. Well, there's only one bedroom anyway, and the kitchen is small. But very serviceable. The utilities are a part of the bill. I hope you like the furniture, as it came furnished."

"I know, it shouldn't be a problem."

"Great! Well, have a look around. I live in the flat next door if you need anything."

"Some tea would be great."

"Well, there's a faucet and a stove. Have a nice day."

I wish Mrs. Hudson was here. Not for any silly sentimental reason, of course. She just made great flat is dark, shabby, worn down. Wallpaper peeling near the ceiling. Sofa the same red as John's ridiculous Christmas jumper. Someone sat in the left corner of that sofa and put their size 10 boots on the extremely scratched coffee table. The orange shag carpet is repulsive. Five boxes in the corner: delivered at 8:00 this morning. I suppose I should unpack what little I have. Mycroft must've gotten my things from 221B and sent them here. Where's my skull? I'm going to have to have a chat with my insufferable brother. He probably found my cigarettes too. Well, I can always get another pack, while that skull was irreplaceable. What is that annoying sound? Oh, a text from Lestrade.

_"Could you come down to the station? We have new information."_

Finally, something to do!

"Donovan would kick me for saying this, but I think Sherlock was framed."

Lestrade is sitting at his cluttered desk. His feet are planted on the ground, which is unusual. He's not comfortable. His eyes are animated and motioning with his hands: excitement. Eyebrows furrow: confusion. He dresses well.

"Why?"

"He couldn't have faked that much. He couldn't have fooled us to that degree. I worked with him personally, and I know he was brilliant, possibly brilliant enough to not have to fake it."

"Could that conclusion be based in sentiment?"

"Initially, I thought so. The man was a bloody fool, but I did care about him a great deal. Which is why I thought it was my affection for him that made me think he was innocent. But as I review the cases he solved, I'm beginning to think it wasn't affection. There were many cases he inexplicably solved with what seemed like zero evidence, but every time, he had a plausible explanation."

"He could've planned it that way."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. Call it intuition. Regardless, I'd like you to interview some of the people who knew him best. Here's some names and addresses. Let me know what you come up with."

Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, _John._ I should've known. My disguise is well done though, and it's close enough that their emotions could cloud any reasoning capabilities. I can pull this off. Maybe they will actually have useful information. Doubtful, but possible.

"Alright. I'm on it."

Lestrade's feet are back on the desk. He's comfortable. He doesn't seem to resent me as much now. Cared about him. Affection. I thought he despised me. I thought I was a wonderful judge of people. It's sentiment. That's what it is. It always throws me off. Because I'm not capable of it.

He cared about me?


	4. Chapter Four

"What's this?"

"Proof Richard Brook is a forged identity. His real name was Jim Moriarty."

That information was pretty easy to find. Jim craved credit for his brilliance, and so he didn't hide his real identity very well. All it took was blackmailing a few whimpering cowards he bribed.

"Well."

Lestrade is silent. Is he disappointed? Relieved? He seemed to believe in me yesterday, did something happen to change is mind? Why is he just sitting there? Did I do something wrong? He's just staring at the documents.

"Well?"

"I...I guess this isn't solid evidence Sherlock was framed. But it's a step in the right direction."

"The right direction?"

He's staring at me. Relief. Chagrin. And a little...sadness?

"Well, I mean... Have you interviewed his character witnesses?"

For the first time, I don't know exactly what's going on in Lestrade's simple mind. Sadness is obvious now. But why? He seems to be mourning. Maybe that would explain the mood swings. Maybe his partner left him or a relative died. Sentiment.

"I'm doing that next."

"Right. Well, let me know.. Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Of course."

He's blinking rapidly. Either tears or irritation. Now he's pretending to read a piece of paper, but the paper is upside down and his eyes aren't scanning it. What made him so upset?

"Lestrade?"

"Yes?"

"Just... Have a nice day."

"You too."

He's smiling now. Good.

She smells like coffee and formaldehyde, as usual. Nostalgia. It's a terrible combination of scents. She hasn't noticed me yet. Did she not hear me come in? Can she not smell me? I guess I should let her know I'm here.

"Molly Hooper?"

She whirled around quickly. Her pupils are dilated and her eyebrows are faintly furrowed: surprise and fear. I guess I should've been more subtle.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh no, you're fine. What can I do for you?"

She's relaxing, leaning against the counter. Her shoulders slump. She looks tired.

"I'm Detective Inspector Hamish Cheveux, and I'd like to ask you some questions about Sherlock Holmes."

The slight smile on her lips is so obvious. An amateur would think that means she's glad I'm dead, but I'm not an amateur. It means she knows I'm alive. She'd better learn to lie more convincingly. Maybe I trusted the wrong person with my plan.

"Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector Cheveux."

"Hamish."

"Ok, Hamish then. And yes, I can help you. I suppose I can say I knew him as well as one could. No, John Watson is a better person to ask. He really knew him. But, I'm happy to help. What would you like to know?"

_John. _I have to talk to him eventually. I just...don't want to see him. I wish I didn't have to lie to him. I wish he could've helped me in place of Molly. But, no. Molly was my secret weapon. She wasn't close to me; she wasn't targeted. Maybe she's a poor actress, but she's the only one I could trust. The one I had to trust. I made the right choice, the only one I could. I don't know why I keep feeling this way. Regret.

"Describe the last time you saw Sherlock Holmes."


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N: I just told you that this chapter would be longer, didn't I? I apologize once again. It was going to be, but I shorten the second section re: writer's block. Chapter six is quickly on it's way. **

"Describe the last time you saw Sherlock Holmes."

The corners of Molly's lips turn up. Her eyes look up. Her left eye twitches and squints.

"I saw him in the morgue the day he died. He walked in to the lab quickly, seemed distracted. I thought at the time that he was probably just thinking about a case. I tried to say hello and make small talk, but he waved me off dismissively."

Good, same cover story we discussed. Now, what would a normal officer ask?

"Is that very abnormal behavior for him?"

"No. It isn't. So I didn't think much of it."

"What happened after that?"

"Nothing really. I remember he kept rolling a small ball in his fingers. I had to go file some papers, so I left. He was gone when I came back."

"To the roof?"

"I don't know. I suppose."

"What about the jump? Were you not present for that?"

"No, I left the building before it happened."

She's blinking a bit longer than normal, but she's not fidgeting or touching her face. For once, I'm glad she's a better actress than I supposed. I don't know what else to ask. I guess I'll leave.

"Thank you, Miss Hooper. I think I have everything I need."

She's relaxing her shoulders. She looks a bit relieved. I guess that's normal behavior after any interrogation.

"Of course. If you have any more questions..."

"I'll be sure to ask. Good day."

"Good day...Mr. Cheveux."

It's so quiet here. It's a bit distracting. I don't think I've ever especially noticed quietness before. It most certainly has never bothered me before. What's wrong with me? There. My crime wall map is finished. I don't know why John always called it that. He had the weirdest ways. His chair, those ridiculous, silly, warm, _beautiful_ jumpers. _"Timing" "Bit not good, yeah." "Amazing!" "Extraordinary!" "Sherlock!" _I remember his voice so clearly. Curse my almost perfect memory. I've definitely never cursed my memory before. What is getting into me? It must be playing this role. I'm taking it too seriously. I'm becoming almost _ordinary_.

Shake head. No. I need to clear these thoughts. I have a crime wall map to study. Moriarty. Molly. Irene. Professor. Moriarty. Molly. Irene. _John. _Irene! Where is she? I'll text her. I wish Mycroft had just given me the same model I had before.

_Mrs. Adler, this is Detective Inspector Cheveux. I would like to talk to you. When could we meet?_

Phone hits the rug. I should play the violin. That will organize my scattered thoughts. Twenty-four rips in this blasted rug. Violin fits my chin perfectly. I should be careful not to scratch it so much. Why would I care about it? Sherlock, _focus_. F-sharp-C-D-A. Stayin' Alive. "I'll burn the heart out of you." "I don't like getting my hands dirty." Ding. Violin carefully on coffee table. Phone on the rug.

_Talk to me about what?_

What would bait would bring her out of the woodwork? Probably the truth.

_I need to talk to you about Sherlock Holmes._

The silence expands and retracts. Kick the rug. Twenty-five rips. Ding.

_221B Baker St. Come alone. Could be dangerous._

**A/N: If you're reading this fic, please comment! Comments motivate amazingly! I just got my first comment, and here I am, writing two chapters in one day! The more you comment, the more chapters you'll get! I know I'm shamelessly bribing you, but I do need the motivation. If I feel like no one's reading, I don't especially want to write. Thank you! xx**


	6. Chapter Six

**A/N: Trigger warning: I apologize for the light sexism and ableism. I completely don't share Sherlock's views on mental illness and women (especially as both). It is necessary for the plot, and it wouldn't go unchecked. No spoilers, but I'm planning on revising some of Sherlock's unhealthy opinions on other people. His sexism and ableism will definitely be a part of that.**

"Absolutely not."

"Mycroft, I need to talk to her. She's the missing link."

"You're not going back to 221B."

"I would've had to eventually. Lestrade wants me interview everybody. Including Mrs. Hudson."

Mycroft runs his hands over his head. His hair sticks up. Resist fixing it. He looks tired. That woman is here. I think John called her Anthea. She isn't texting for once.

"Maybe this is the break we need, Mr. Holmes."

Anthea just advised Mycroft. An unwise move. She's his inferior, in more ways than one.

"You think so?"

"I do. It'll be dangerous, but we can keep eyes on him. We need this information. And he's right, he'll probably have to talk to Mrs. Hudson eventually."

Mycroft looks tense. Worried. He's thinking. He's going to... relent. Wow.

"Alright. Go. But I am _not_ responsible for the consequences."

A women just stood up to Mycroft. And won! Maybe I'm not going crazy, maybe the world is going crazy.

221 Baker St. It's been too long since I've been here last. No, maybe too short. Why do I feel a reluctance to go in? Why do I feel such nostalgia? It is simply a location. I do not have any ridiculous sentiment about this place. None whatsoever.

The sound of the knocker is familiar. Everything is. Including the sound the door makes.

"Yes?"

Mrs. Hudson looks exactly the same. Yet I think she's changed. Maybe I'm projecting. Not that I've changed, of course, but my appearance has. No, she's changed. She seems more sad. Tired. Worn down. What happened? She must've lost a family member. Or friend.

"I'm Detective Inspector Hamish Cheveux. Please call me Hamish. I need to see Sherlock Holmes's flat. If it's alright with you."

Why did I add that afterthought? I still need to see it whether or not it's okay with her.

"Of course it's okay, Hamish! Come in, come in. I'm Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and John's housekeeper. At least I used to be."

This entry room looks the same. Everything looks the same. Of course. Why would it change?

"Housekeeper?"

"Well, technically their landlady. But honestly? I was their housekeeper."

Laughter bubbles to the surface. Quiet, warm laughter. I haven't laughed like that in a long time.

"Right. Well, is their flat this way?"

Of course I know where my own flat is. It's also the only option. But it would be out of character not to ask. I think I'm beginning to understand Hamish Cheveux pretty well. I am an expert on human nature, after all.

"Yes, yes. Please, go on up. Look at whatever you like. Do you need me up there, or would you rather be alone?"

"I'd actually like to be alone. But I do have to ask you some questions. If you don't mind"

Hamish sure is polite. It's almost revolting. It's not as hard to fake as I thought it would be though.

"Alright, just knock on my door whenever you're done. I hope you find what you need"

The door swings shut, but the it doesn't catch. Seventeen steps. The twelfth still groans. The door hasn't been tampered with. How did Irene get in? The flat looks empty. Completely empty. Not just devoid of life, but devoid of all remnants of life. Just furniture, wallpaper, fireplace. The only personal effect left is my skull, still in the same place. At least Mycroft's people left it. I'll have to carry it. It isn't as heavy as I thought it would be. There's a ring where the skull blocked the dust. Desolate.

John's chair. It's fraying on the bottom edge. The cushion is bursting through the seems. The sun has faded the black cushion. John's dark outline is barely visible. I see why he used to sit here. It's very comfortable. And warm. The sun through the dirty windows makes a hazy watercolor pattern on my legs. There isn't a lot of dust in the room yet. It hasn't been unoccupied for that long.

I don't really want to get up, but I should check the kitchen. It's dirty. There's an old ring from a mug. The bathroom is also empty. The tear in the shower curtain from where John slipped and fell is still there. I'll just peek into our bedrooms. Nope, no one. They look too empty. Much too empty. Where is Irene? I really do think I'm losing my mind. I need to get out of here.

Walk down the steps one at a time. Mrs. Hudson may not make the connection, but I don't want her thinking that there are any similarities between Hamish and Sherlock. Knock on the door. She answers. I can't believe I've never been in Mrs. Hudson's flat. She's on the phone. She holds up one finger to me. I don't understand why people do that. They don't really mean they'll be done in exactly one minute. Humans are strangely very imprecise. What is she doing with her hands? She's pointing at a chair. Maybe she wants me to sit there. She's talking to her brother. He's wanting a place to stay. She'd better not offer 221B. Good, she didn't. She's hanging up and sitting across from me. That pale blue is a good color on her.

"I'm so sorry about that, Mr...Hamish. I was talking to my brother. That good for nothing, lazy... Sorry. I know that's not what we're here to talk about."

"No, not exactly. I need to know when was the last time you saw Sherlock Holmes."

"It was...when they arrested him. He wasn't guilty, Hamish! He really wasn't. I know he was set up. I don't have any evidence, but I just know he's innocent!"

She's getting emotional. What do I do? She seems afraid. Frantic. I guess I should tell her we're trying to prove my innocence. Maybe that'll make her feel better.

"Mrs. Hudson, you should probably know that I am currently working to prove Mr. Holmes's innocence."

"Thank you so much. You have no idea how much that means to me. I don't like people thinking about him so negatively. He wouldn't like me saying this, but he was a good man. A very good man."

Why would she think I wouldn't like that? Maybe I shouldn't. Should I? I don't understand. She's staring at me. I should say something.

"Right, well, yes. Um. So, please go more into detail about the last time you saw him."

"Of course, Hamish. Well, I went up to their flat–"

"Sorry to interrupt, but to clarify, are you referring to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes. So, I went up to their flat and gave them a parcel marked "Perishables". It was delivered by a German person. Then...the police came and uh, took them away. I.."

Tears are welling up in eyes. Her voice sounds like she's choking. What do I do? I don't know how to make her stop. I don't like seeing her so upset. It makes me feel...almost upset myself. Should I pat her hand? I'll try that.

"Thank you, Hamish. I'm sorry. I promised myself I wouldn't cry, but I just can't help it."

Now she's really crying. Why am I wrapping my arms around her? She's leaning into me, relaxing. I guess what I'm doing is good. She's still crying though. What else do I do? I guess I'll pat her arm. I don't know what else to do. She's relaxed at least. Comfort. She's mumbling into my cardigan.

"Thank you, Hamish."

She's crying for me, I guess. I'm glad I can help her a little. I've made her so sad. I wish I didn't have to. I really just want to tell her everything right now. But I can't. That would spoil everything. Her sweater is so soft. Ding.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Go ahead and answer your phone. I'll just go freshen up a bit."

She's leaving. I wish she was still my landlady. Because...she makes great tea of course. I need to check my phone. Left pocket.

_Quite a show of emotion for a sociopath, Hamish._


	7. Chapter Seven

**A/N: Another incredibly short chapter, I know, I'm sorry. I was at my cousin's graduation over the weekend, so I only had time to write a short one. And I've been very ill this week. But I'll post another one as soon as I can.**

**This is mostly a filler chapter, so I hope you don't hate me too much! There are a few subtle jokes, and it sets us up for a shift in tone in the plot. I hope you enjoy it regardless! xx**

How could I have been so careless? Of course she was watching us. She's a very suspicious person. Why else would she call me a sociopath? I don't even know how she knew I am a sociopath. And what was her text before that?

_Could be dangerous._

I think I texted that to John the day we met. How could she possibly know that? Think, Sherlock, think. What am I missing?

I probably should've said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson.

No, that's irrelevant right now. How could Irene know personal details of my life? "It'll be dangerous, but we can keep eyes on him. We need this information." Anthea told Mycroft to put eyes on me. Maybe Irene was Jim's eyes. That would make sense. Or maybe Irene put eyes on me. Or Mycroft told Irene to put on eyes on me. Regardless, she's been watching why would she reveal that to me now? Why? THINK.

I'm getting tired of holding this skull. Mycroft's trail is not very subtle. At least not subtle enough. I'll wave manically at him. Oh, wow the look on his face! I probably shouldn't just stand in the middle of the street chuckling to myself. I really am losing my mind. Or maybe I lost it a long time ago and I'm just noticing. That's an interesting hypothesis. I'll have to think about that. When I have more time, of course.

Ahh, 448 Allsop Place. It doesn't roll off my tongue as nicely as 221B Baker St., but it'll do. This door is heavy. There must've been crime here at some point, and they tried to make it safer by changing the door. Simple, ordinary people. Twenty-one steps to my door. Why is Marge staring at me like I'm a criminal? The door hasn't been tampered with. I'll just set my skull on the coffee table for now. The skull...just doesn't look right there.

Nothing looks right here.

"Detective Inspector Cheveux! You're here. Good! I was wanting to run a theory past you."

What is Anderson doing here? He needs to shave. Maybe if I don't give him any expression he'll get uncomfortable and leave.

"Get comfortable, because this is doozy!"

No such luck. What kind of person says the word doozy?

"I know this is going to sound crazy, but hear me out. I think Sherlock Holmes is still alive."

What? How could _Anderson _possibly have figured out? Don't let your panic show through. Think: slight surprise.

"That's ridiculous. Why would you say that?"

"Think about it. He had all of the resources necessary to fake his death. He had a connection in the morgue, Molly Hooper I believe was her name. He could've gotten her to cover anything."

"That's all your theory is based on?"

"No, I mean. Well, sort of. But don't you think it was all a little convenient? John being called away, coming back just in time to pronounce him dead, but didn't get a good look."

"Where do you get all that information?"

"I've...looked at the Holmes/Moriarty case file. I hope you don't mind. Lestrade let me look through it. I was just curious since I...knew the man."

"No, I'm not okay with it. What does Lestrade think of your idea?"

"The same you do."

Thankfully, he doesn't. I never thought Anderson would figure this out. Of all people, _Anderson_? Capable of deductive reasoning?

"Good. He's not a fool. Please get out of here."

"Right. I'm sorry. Lestrade thought you wouldn't agree with it either. It was just a theory. I'm sorry. I'll...get out of your way. Goodbye."

He's gone.

Of all people..._Anderson_?

**A/N: Did I bring Anderson as a theorist in too quickly? I don't know. I think he would begin theorizing about now, but I don't know if he'd bring it up to Cheveux. Let me know what you think in the comments!**

**By the way, I have the same username on Archive of Our Own. I'm sorry I'm just posting these chapters, I keep forgetting I even have this account. If you follow me over there, you will get the chapters posted more quickly. I also have more fics on that profile. I'm sorry, it's simply the platform I use more often.**

**I'll try to keep this one up to, though! But if it's been a while, try checking that site. There might be more chapters there.**


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